A/N: If anyone has the time, please reread the fanfic. I'd really appreciate some feedback on the newly edited version. Please leave a review or a comment, and if you enjoy it, consider giving a Power Stone. Thank you!
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"Harry, I must say, I'm incredibly proud of you." On the sun-drenched shores of the Black Lake, Sirius Black forced a smile at his godson. "I believe that if James and Lily were here, they would be just as proud of you."
"Thank you." Harry's voice was slightly thick with emotion.
He sat on a great fallen tree trunk by the water's edge, watching the silver ripples move across the lake with the breeze, and thought of the silver stag and doe Patronuses that had swept across its surface one night.
"I—I miss them so much," he said softly.
He was reluctant to admit that, when he had seen the other champions' families in the waiting chamber, a pang of envy had struck him.
Every champion had parents by their side. Except him.
Fortunately, he had the best godfather in the world. And there was Mrs. Weasley, who had always been unfailingly kind and loving towards him. Yet they were different from his birth parents—they brought him great comfort, but could not entirely soothe the quiet ripple of melancholy that had stirred in his chest.
Sirius was silent for a moment. Then he crouched down, his tall frame bringing him level with his godson's gaze.
He looked at Harry—not through him, as he so often did—and said with quiet sincerity, "Harry, remember that everyone who truly loves us is always with us. They are with you right now. In your heart."
Harry stared back. He realised, with a start, that Sirius wasn't seeing his father in him this time. He was speaking to Harry alone.
"In my heart?" Harry repeated softly. A warm current rose slowly in his chest.
He remembered what Draco had told him by the Black Lake the night he first cast the Patronus Charm—that his parents had appeared in his memory at the very moment he cast the spell, that they had never truly left, that their image lived on inside him.
"They're in your heart right now, aren't they?" he asked his godfather quietly.
"Of course," Sirius answered without hesitation. He smiled, his grey eyes shimmering. "At this moment. Every moment. Always."
Tears pricked Harry's eyes, but he smiled all the same.
Across the grounds, Mrs. Weasley and Bill emerged from the direction of the Whomping Willow, walking slowly back towards the castle after admiring its thrashing branches. They spotted Harry and waved.
"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley called. "We've just finished watching!"
Sirius glanced their way and turned back, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Harry—I can't stay with you all day. There are important things I need to see to."
Harry nodded. His voice came out slightly halting. "Are we going to fight Voldemort?"
He wasn't a fool. He had felt the tension tightening around him for weeks.
As the Third Task drew closer, Harry had noticed too many things to ignore. Draco—his most unhelpful and idle friend—had suddenly changed his habits entirely, attending every practice session without fail, just like Hermione. Sirius had been lingering in Hogsmeade, inexplicably busy, seemingly laying some kind of plan. The pain from his scar had led him to certain truths: that Voldemort still lingered somewhere in the world, biding his time.
And then there were Professor Dumbledore's precautions—the castle portraits, the ghosts, the suits of armour, the way every teacher kept a watchful eye on his whereabouts. Taken together, these things pointed clearly in one direction.
They were afraid for his safety.
"Is Voldemort plotting something?" Harry asked his godfather directly.
Sirius's expression turned grave.
Harry had been present when Bartemius Crouch Junior's disguise was exposed. He had heard Crouch's full confession—had understood perfectly what the plan had been: to turn the Triwizard Cup into a Portkey and deliver him like a sacrificial lamb to Voldemort, who desperately needed his blood for a resurrection ritual.
Although Dumbledore and the others had uncovered the scheme and brought things under control, Harry would have wagered his Firebolt that Voldemort's desire to capture and use him would never cease, not while his soul still clung to the world.
This knowledge—enough to keep any fourteen-year-old awake at night—had hung over Harry's head throughout the tournament. Not that he let it show. When faced with worried looks, he had long since learned to pretend he didn't care.
But now, looking at his godfather, he finally let his guard down. "Sirius—are you doing something to stop him?"
"That's right." Sirius noticed Harry's unease and gave him an easy smile. "Don't worry. Everything is going according to plan. What happens beyond Hogwarts' walls is not your responsibility, and it's not something you can change from here. All you need to do tonight is focus on the maze—think about how to get through it safely. As for everything else, I'll explain it to you properly after the task. All right?"
Harry nodded, setting his worries aside, and began to turn over in his mind the spells Draco and Hermione had drilled into him. He remembered all of them. That, at least, made him feel steadier.
After tonight, whatever the outcome, the tournament would finally be over. The enormous burden that Bartemius Crouch Junior had dropped on him could at last be set down.
"Sirius—whatever you're doing, be careful. You're my only family now."
"I will be." Sirius pulled a face at his godson's overly solemn expression. "You're the one who needs to be careful. Judging by the way Hagrid talks about those maze creatures as though they're 'little babies,' I suspect they're no safer than a Blast-Ended Skrewt."
Harry let out a short laugh. "They're probably not much safer than Blast-Ended Skrewts full stop."
Sirius burst into laughter.
"That's the spirit!" he said. "In our eyes, Voldemort is no more fearsome than a Flobberworm—a disgusting and useless creature. Just a bit more dangerous than a garden slug."
Harry grinned, his sombre mood swept away by his godfather's easy laugh.
"One more thing," Harry said before Sirius could stand. He looked up at him with earnest green eyes. "I saw Rita Skeeter's article. About you and Fleur—"
"Ah—that's... rather complicated..." Sirius's carefree manner evaporated at once. "I—"
"Relax," Harry said, shrugging. "All I want to say is, you two make a good couple."
"Oh—thank you," Sirius said hastily. Then, as if suddenly remembering an urgent appointment, he scrambled to his feet, his expression suddenly very preoccupied. "Harry, I really do have to go now. I'll be back before dinner."
Harry said nothing more, gave him a knowing look, and waved with a grin as his godfather departed at an almost suspiciously quick pace.
Mrs. Weasley and Bill strolled over.
She watched Sirius's retreating figure with suspicion. "What's got into him? He's acting as though he's been grabbed by a Devil's Snare."
"What does Devil's Snare do again?" Harry asked, falling into step beside them as they headed towards the greenhouses.
"Constricts you, of course—squeezes tighter the more you struggle," Mrs. Weasley said, picking her way carefully around the edge of the paddock. "You certainly don't want to stumble into one of those. Poor Elcott was badly hurt by one. I imagine Minerva had a terrible time of it too... She's still single, you know, never did think about settling down..."
Harry listened with mild bewilderment, unsure what expression to adopt.
"It's a thorny green plant," Bill said, stepping up beside Harry with an amicable smile. "Its tendrils move on their own and grab at anything living that comes near. Mum's been worried sick about you going into this maze—ever since Charlie told her about your First Task with the dragon."
"Of course I've been worried!" Mrs. Weasley said firmly as they entered the greenhouse. "Harry, promise me you'll keep away from anything that moves in there. No matter how harmless it looks!"
"Yes, Mrs. Weasley, I promise," Harry said quickly.
"These days, nothing is necessarily safe," she went on, her face drawn with lingering unease. "Why, the Christmas cactus someone brought to St. Mungo's last month turned out to be a disguised Devil's Snare—impossible to tell the difference until it was too late!"
"You saw that article too?" Harry asked. "The one about Mr. Crouch?"
"Just a small piece, wasn't it? I must say, he wasn't a very popular man at the Ministry. Very strict—not that we didn't respect him, mind you, but he never made many true friends over the years." Mrs. Weasley paused to peer with interest at a large Mandrake pot and shrugged. "St. Mungo's called it an accident. The Department accepted that and didn't make a fuss."
"A lot of people think there's more to it," Bill murmured to Harry as Mrs. Weasley moved off to examine the Mandrakes more closely. "He was a Department Head, after all—his death should have been a much bigger affair. The Ministry seemed very keen to keep it quiet. Percy took it hard, you know. He always admired Mr. Crouch greatly."
Harry nodded. He remembered Percy's constant references to "Mr. Crouch" all through the previous summer.
"They ought to look at what's underneath this Mandrake!" Mrs. Weasley lifted a broad leaf and peered at a chunk of bark-like material beneath. "Look at that—a Bubotuber growth, right here!"
"Mum, watch your ankle—Professor Sprout's far too thorough to miss something like that," Bill said casually. "Come on, let's head back to the castle for lunch."
---
The Gryffindor table was bustling.
Ron had rushed straight over the moment his History of Magic exam was done, followed closely by Fred, George, and Ginny. Surrounded by the lot of them, Harry felt for a moment as though he were back at the Burrow—his worries about Voldemort and the maze temporarily pushed aside by the warmth and noise of it all.
Hermione arrived halfway through lunch, slightly breathless. Harry suspected, from the look of her, that she had been doing something alone with a certain silver-haired Slytherin—an impression confirmed when, shortly after she appeared, a pale-blond figure strolled in through the Great Hall entrance and made his way unhurriedly to the Slytherin table.
What was strange was that Draco didn't escort Hermione to the Gryffindor table as he usually did—didn't swagger over with that infuriating smirk, lingering until the Gryffindor boys were thoroughly irritated before sauntering back. Today, he and Hermione parted ways at the entrance without ceremony, as though they were nothing more than passing acquaintances.
Harry greeted Hermione and turned back to his beef stew, but he caught the moment Mrs. Weasley looked up and said, with studied coolness, "Hello, Hermione."
Harry noticed it at once. Mrs. Weasley's manner towards Hermione was far more distant than it had been over the summer. He guessed she was still bothered by some of Rita Skeeter's earlier articles.
Hermione sat down beside Ginny, her expression going slightly uncertain at the reception.
Harry put down his fork without hesitation. "Mrs. Weasley—you don't actually believe what Rita Skeeter wrote, do you? Hermione has never been my girlfriend. She's never played with my feelings."
Merlin have mercy on her—Hermione's boyfriend is Draco Malfoy.
"Oh!" Mrs. Weasley said immediately, waving her hand as though the idea were beneath consideration. "No, of course not! Everyone knows Rita Skeeter is a dreadful troublemaker."
After that, she became noticeably warmer towards Hermione.
Hermione didn't seem to take the initial coolness to heart. She smiled across the table, took a sip of pumpkin juice, and let her gaze drift—as if by accident—towards the Slytherin table, where her boyfriend was lazily pouring himself a glass of apple juice. He glanced at her once, briefly, and looked away.
"How is Percy?" Harry asked, trying to ease the lingering awkwardness. "I didn't see him earlier."
"It's all because of Crouch." Mrs. Weasley lowered her voice and glanced around. "Percy's done something very foolish—apparently, some instructions Mr. Crouch sent through Percy don't look as though Crouch actually wrote them. The Ministry is furious. They've pulled Percy in for questioning and stopped him from standing in as fifth referee."
"What does any of that have to do with Percy?" Ron demanded, a chicken leg in hand.
"They seem to think those instructions might not have been genuine," Mrs. Weasley said indignantly. "That's utter nonsense! Percy would never lie!"
"'Course he wouldn't," Harry said, though his mind was turning over the implications quietly.
"He's such a hardworking, dedicated boy," Mrs. Weasley went on, her expression caught between pride and worry.
"So dedicated he barely eats," George said cheerfully. "We reckon he's taken up Muggle fasting—ancient Eastern magic."
"No sleep, no food, just sheer willpower," Fred agreed solemnly, clinking his goblet with his brother's. Ginny giggled softly.
"This is no laughing matter!" Mrs. Weasley rounded on the twins. "Your brother is working himself to the bone cleaning up Crouch's mess, and he doesn't even get a hot meal for it! They don't trust him, and the job is twice as demanding as before—"
"But he hasn't lost the position, has he?" Bill said mildly. "I suspect they can't find anyone faster or more reliable to sort out the mess. Which is precisely why they won't let him go, even if they're questioning him."
"If I were him, I'd resign on principle," Fred said. "Let them sort it out themselves."
Bill shook his head. "Percy's too conscientious for that. He doesn't abandon things he's started." He paused, a look of reluctant admiration crossing his face. "He told me the Department keeps saying they're short-staffed, can't spare anyone to share his workload—and yet they've sent two people specifically to review everything he's done for signs of irregularities. It's rather absurd."
"And to top it all off," Mrs. Weasley said crossly, "they gave his referee post to Cornelius Fudge instead of letting Percy keep it—otherwise we'd have seen him today."
Hermione, who had been only half-listening while cutting herself a slice of apple pie, suddenly looked up. "Mrs. Weasley—what is the Ministry's official position on Mr. Crouch's death?"
Mrs. Weasley launched into a rather lengthy explanation, detailing with considerable indignation how inadequately the Ministry of Magic had handled the death of a Department Head—buried so quietly, so little ceremony. Harry, having already heard the broad strokes from Bill, turned his attention back to spooning beef stew onto his plate.
"What about someone like Mr. Bagman?" Hermione pressed. "He'd know the inside story. How has he been lately?"
Mrs. Weasley softened slightly, apparently feeling a little remorse for her earlier frostiness. "Oh, he can't be bothered with Crouch's affairs—he's in quite a muddle himself. One of his staff, a woman named Bertha Jorkins, has gone missing. Bagman doesn't seem terribly concerned; he seems to think she's just forgotten to send word before going on holiday."
"Bertha Jorkins?" Hermione repeated, chewing slowly, as though tasting the name alongside the pastry.
"Old Bertha—been shuffled from department to department for years, caused more bother than she was worth. No wonder Bagman's not rushing to find her." Mrs. Weasley shook her head. "Though I will say—she is still one of his people. He ought to make more of an effort instead of just laughing it off."
Hermione found the apple pie suddenly tasteless. She glanced across the table at Harry, who was absorbed in his Yorkshire pudding, entirely oblivious. Beside her, Ron was carefully assessing which chicken leg looked largest.
Neither of them had caught the name.
"What does Bertha Jorkins look like, Mrs. Weasley—do you know?" Hermione asked.
"Old Bertha? Stout, as I remember—always wore a rather disagreeable expression. Not a very cheerful sort. I haven't seen her in years, mind." Mrs. Weasley stirred her fruit pudding thoughtfully. "I can't say I liked her much. She had a terrible habit of poking her nose in where it wasn't wanted."
"Will Mr. Bagman be here tonight?" Hermione continued, aware she was asking a great many questions and barely letting Mrs. Weasley eat.
Bill smiled as he cut into a kidney pie. "He ought to be—otherwise the Ministry would have replaced him as referee by now."
Hermione's fork stilled on her plate.
"What's wrong?" Ginny asked quietly, noticing Hermione's expression.
"I've just thought of something," Hermione murmured, eyes drifting to Harry across the table. "I'm not certain yet."
Harry was playing in the final tonight. Was it wise to pull his attention away now and dredge up his nightmares?
"Is it important?" Ginny pressed.
"It might be. But perhaps not as important as Harry's match." Hermione bit her lip, deciding to say nothing to Harry for the moment.
"Then at least try to hide that worried look," Ginny whispered, a small grin tugging at her mouth. "Someone across the room has been watching you for quite a while. If you keep looking like that, he might feel the need to come over and ask if you're all right—and that could give Mum quite a shock. We haven't exactly told her about him yet."
Hermione's gaze flicked across the hall. The silver-haired boy at the Slytherin table looked up at the same moment and met her eyes.
"You're right—I should talk to him first," Hermione said, something clicking into place. She smiled at the platinum-haired boy, then turned back to Ginny. "Thank you."
"What are you thanking me for—" Ginny barely finished the sentence before Hermione sprang to her feet with the air of someone who has just solved a very difficult equation.
"Hermione, wait—" Ginny grabbed her arm, alarm rising immediately. "Where are you going?"
"I need to talk to him. Now."
Ginny's grip faltered. She stared as Hermione stepped neatly off the bench and, with shining eyes and remarkable purpose, walked straight across the Great Hall toward the Slytherin table.
Merlin's pants. Ginny's mouth fell open. She isn't actually going to—
Even couples from different houses sat with their own at mealtimes. That was simply understood. An unspoken rule—practically a Hogwarts institution.
Hermione, that impossibly impulsive Gryffindor, was ignoring it entirely.
On this day of all days—the day of the Triwizard Tournament's final task, with students from all four houses packed into the Great Hall, and both the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations in attendance—she was walking straight to the Slytherin table and sitting down beside Draco Malfoy.
Ginny watched, wide-eyed, as the indifferent-looking blond boy noticed Hermione approaching, and smiled. He rose to his feet and extended his hand to her, as though inviting a princess to descend to his throne.
And Hermione—led by the hand—sat down at the Slytherin table and began speaking to him in an animated undertone, completely oblivious to the sea of stares around her.
Ginny reluctantly dragged her eyes away.
She had no desire to watch what would inevitably happen next—not with her mother, a steadfast and vocal opponent of anything bearing the name Malfoy, sitting with her back to the scene, blissfully unaware. Draco Malfoy had, by the misfortune of birth, managed to hit both of Molly Weasley's most sensitive spots at once: the surname, and the Death Eater family legacy. This was going to be rather like a comet hitting a Ministry building.
Ginny hunched over her mashed potatoes and decided to focus on eating.
Her one consolation was that her mother was facing the other way and couldn't see anything. She also appeared not to notice the ripple of coughing that was spreading through the hall—students choking on their food in sheer astonishment.
Bill, however, was not so fortunate.
He was sitting at an angle that gave him a clear view of the opposite table, and he proved it by spraying a mouthful of pumpkin juice evenly across Fred's face.
"Sorry, Fred," Bill said, coughing and pushing a serviette across the table.
The twin across from him picked up several serviettes and wiped his face with great dignity. "It's George."
"Beg your pardon—George—"
"Only joking. It's Fred." He grinned. "Bill, you're going to need a proper pair of Spectrespecs if you can't tell us apart without resorting to identifying the one you've drenched."
"Yeah, the long hair and fang earring aren't quite doing it anymore," George agreed.
Bill didn't laugh at their jokes as he usually would. His gaze was still fixed across the hall. "Hermione and—Malfoy?" he said, his voice slightly strangled. "A Slytherin?"
Molly Weasley heard her eldest son say that.
She set aside her preoccupation with Harry and followed Bill's gaze, turning in her seat—just in time to see Hermione Granger seated at the silver-green Slytherin table, in close and animated conversation with a platinum-blond boy who was, at that very moment, holding a strawberry to her lips.
And she—without a moment's hesitation—ate it in one bite.
"This is utterly indecent!" Molly said, her face darkening.
Bill swallowed hard. "Are they—" he asked Harry, with the determined air of someone who has already guessed the answer and is hoping to be corrected, "—dating?"
"Yes," Harry said, glancing back and suppressing a grin. "Hermione is definitely not my girlfriend. Her boyfriend is Draco Malfoy."
He noticed Mrs. Weasley's expression cycling rapidly through bright red, deep crimson, and finally an alarming shade of iron blue.
"This is absolutely indecent," she said in a sharp, unfamiliar tone. "She's degrading herself—"
Harry was taken aback. He had expected shock—Mrs. Weasley was entitled to shock, anyone's first reaction to this news involved at least some shock—but not this. Not the sudden edge in her voice. Not this particular quality of disgust.
He felt a pang of regret. Perhaps he should have been more careful with how he phrased it.
Of course—he had forgotten. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had always harboured a deep dislike for Lucius Malfoy, and the feeling was entirely mutual. Because of his friendship with Draco, Harry often found himself mentally separating Draco from his family name. He had assumed Mrs. Weasley would do the same, especially given how friendly the Weasley children had been with Draco.
"Mrs. Weasley—you don't actually believe Rita Skeeter's other articles either, do you?" Harry tried gently. "Hermione has never done anything wrong."
"Harry, stop defending her," Mrs. Weasley said, her tone softening slightly before tightening again. "I think Rita Skeeter may have been right about some—"
"Mum! You said half an hour ago that Rita Skeeter was a dreadful troublemaker!" Ginny looked up from her mashed potatoes, her voice clear and firm. "Hermione has the right to choose who she dates."
Harry shot Ginny a grateful look.
She returned it with a brief, slightly flushed smile.
"Ginny, do you have any idea what I'm trying to say?" Mrs. Weasley stared at her youngest daughter, clearly baffled by the interruption. "If she's truly your friend, shouldn't you be trying to talk some sense into her?"
"I think what matters is that Hermione hasn't played with anyone's feelings," Ginny said steadily, her colour rising. "Whoever she's with, she's still our friend. Shouldn't we respect her?"
"Ginny—that's a Malfoy!"
"Back when you and Dad started courting, half the family was against it," Fred said pleasantly, having finished wiping his face. "Did you listen to them? You broke free and ran straight for the sunset, didn't you, Mum?"
"That is not the same thing at all!" Mrs. Weasley said, though her expression flickered. "Your father and I shared ideals and principles. We made sacrifices for each other. Our feelings were genuine."
"True love, pure and simple," Ginny said. She glanced at the couple at the far table, who were now bent close together in serious conversation. "How do you know theirs isn't the same? They look rather well-matched, don't they?"
"Don't be naïve, young lady!" Mrs. Weasley said coldly. "Look at that boy's family—look at what they stand for. Everything about them is the opposite of genuine principles or purity of heart. And their pure-blood fanaticism—"
"But Mum," Ginny said lightly, "if the Malfoy heir is courting a Muggle-born girl, his father can hardly go on claiming to be a pure-blood supremacist. Isn't that exactly the sort of thing that would make Dad laugh for a week?"
Molly paused.
"That's—that's true," she muttered, unable to stop herself glancing back at the couple, who were murmuring into each other's ears. The sight still made her lips press together. "But it isn't that simple."
Merlin's socks. In all her years, she had never once seen a Malfoy showing tenderness to a Muggle-born witch. It was frankly incomprehensible.
She remembered, with a small jolt, a conversation she'd had with Arthur shortly after the Quidditch World Cup—some strange question he'd raised: could the Malfoys, staunch pure-blood believers, ever marry into a Muggle family?
She had laughed. She had said it was absolutely impossible.
But now...
Molly looked again, reluctantly and against her better nature. She tried to examine the pair with some degree of impartiality.
There was, she had to admit, something tender in the way they moved. Something that looked—uncomfortably—like genuine feeling.
But they were young and foolish. Too young to understand what the world was.
"Can that boy actually be trusted?" she asked her daughter quietly. "Is this genuine, or is he merely after something new—toying with her feelings?"
"Hermione is not a stupid girl," Ginny said firmly. "She knows the difference between sincerity and a performance. I can't claim to be particularly fond of Malfoy myself—but she clearly is, and from what I've seen, he seems genuinely sincere with her."
Molly made a low, unconvinced sound.
She cast a sidelong glance at Ron. He was gnawing contentedly on a large chicken leg, seemingly undisturbed by any of it—not a trace of disappointment on his face.
Molly exhaled slowly.
She didn't look back at the couple again.
Harry's safety was what mattered tonight. As for Hermione—foolish, oblivious girl—Molly decided she would simply have to put it out of her mind for now.